The Midnight Queen (25 page)

“My mother's news is
most
interesting,” she said at length, when the talk lagged for a moment.

“Indeed?” Her husband raised a sceptical eyebrow. “How so?”

“She writes of her efforts to arrange a betrothal for her unfortunate second son.”

Down the table, Gray choked on his bread-and-butter.

After a moment he drained the remaining contents of his teacup and said to Jenny, “And what result have these efforts yielded, then?”

“None, alas,” she replied, calmly. “It seems that my father refuses to involve himself in the business—maintains, you know, that he has no such son—and she has ‘found it impossible, thus far, to persuade any respectable family to consider such a regrettable alliance.'”

“Regrettable!”
The word had left Sophie's lips before she could stop it; her teacup shattered, its contents overflowing the saucer and spreading a pale brown stain over Jenny's fine linen tablecloth. Every eye at the table came to rest on her.

“I do apologise, Lady Kergabet,” she muttered, too flustered and furious to concentrate on deflecting their attention. “I . . . if Gray were
my
brother, I should be very angry to hear him slighted in such a way.”

“Jenny is quite accustomed to it, Sophie,” Gray said kindly, “as am I. You need not fret over the blow to my vanity.”

She caught his bitter half smile in the instant before he schooled his expression to neutrality, and her heart seemed to miss a beat. For a moment she forgot the others at the table, plunged into a vivid memory of the past night's events, and she and Gray might have been alone in her moonlit chamber again.

Then his half smile grew into a crooked grin, and she looked down at her plate, her cheeks burning under Joanna's speculative gaze.

“She asks,” Jenny continued after a moment, as collectedly as though she had seen none of this, “for my help, and my husband's, in convincing someone to allow his daughter to marry Gray.”

I
, cried a voice in Sophie's mind whose existence she had not till now suspected.
I will marry him, with all my heart . . .
She kept her gaze fixed on her plate and pleated the edge of the tablecloth between her fingers.

“Marriage need not be such a
very
dreadful prospect,” Jenny was saying now, gently teasing.

“Jenny, must you?” Gray spoke quietly, but his voice held a warning note that Sophie had heard before, and Jenny must have recognised it also, for she quickly steered the discussion to other subjects. Sophie, preoccupied by her efforts not to make a scene, hardly knew what the others talked of.

“Sophie?” said Jenny's voice at her ear.

She looked up, startled, to find the table deserted; during her silent internal struggle, the others apparently had finished their meal and gone their separate ways. Jenny stood beside her chair, one hand on the curve of her belly and the other on Sophie's shoulder, smiling down with every appearance of compassion. “My dear, you look quite overset,” she said. “And I should like to talk with you a little. Might I persuade you to help me with my fancy-work . . . ?”

Numbly, Sophie nodded and rose to follow her out of the breakfast-room.

*   *   *

“You are angry with me,” Jenny said, when they had settled themselves in her airy, pleasant little sitting-room.

“Not with you,” Sophie protested. Though the baby's gown whose hem she was embellishing gave her an excuse to keep her eyes focused on her work, it offered no escape from probing questions.

“With my mother, then,” said Jenny. “I understand your feelings perfectly.”

“I cannot see how,” Sophie said, her voice strange and choked in her own ears.

“You love and admire Gray,” said Jenny, “and believe no one else values him as you do.” She appeared not to notice Sophie's discomfiture, but calmly continued, “I have loved and admired my brother far longer than you can have done, Sophie, though perhaps not better.”

“I am sorry—I meant no disrespect—” She broke off, affronted by her hostess's expression of amusement.

“I do beg your pardon, Sophie,” Jenny said. “I know that this must all be very trying. I had hoped, you see, that we might become better acquainted—that we might, perhaps, be friends . . .”

She spoke so kindly. She had put herself forward, had perhaps endangered her family, for their sake, when she might so easily have turned them away; not least, she was Gray's loyal and beloved sister. Sophie had a sudden, mad urge to kneel at Jenny's feet and confess everything—even acknowledge aloud, perhaps, this morning's new discovery. Jenny, she was sure, would not laugh at her. But had Sophie not done enough already to turn Gray's life on end?

Instead, therefore, she forced herself to smile calmly, to set her stitches neatly as she said, with perfect though greatly abridged truth, “I should like that very much.”

*   *   *

They spoke, as they worked, of inconsequential things, and Sophie was surprised to find herself enjoying the conversation; it was a relief from poisons and treason and shielding-spells to turn her hands to fancy-work, and her thoughts to considering the relative merits of green velvet and blue lustring.

She and Jenny were laughing happily over the latter's tales of kitchen prankery when, to Sophie's astonishment, the door burst noisily open and Gray, breathless and frantic-eyed, ducked under the lintel. “Jenny!” he exclaimed. “Have you seen—”

Then his gaze lit on Sophie, and his whole bearing relaxed—then stiffened again in something very like accusation. “Why do you hide in here?” he demanded. “Joanna has been quite frantic, and Mrs. Wallis—”

“I am not
hiding
,” Sophie retorted, holding up her embroidery. “I am helping Jenny.”

Gray frowned at her, and, blushing, she dropped her eyes.

“I asked Sophie's help, Gray,” Jenny said. “She has had far too much of excitement and distress of late, and she needs quiet and peace, and a little female company. If you persist in worrying her,” she went on, more severely, “I shall be forced to ask that you amuse yourself elsewhere.”

There was a brief, tense silence. Then Gray said, very quietly, “I shall be in the library, Sophie, with Master Alcuin. What we have been discussing concerns you very directly. When you have finished your work, perhaps you would join us there.”

“Of course,” Sophie whispered; her hands trembled as she set stitch upon stitch. She did not look up, however, until she had heard the door close, and then she found Jenny studying her with such a lively interest as made her drop her gaze to her work again, gritting her teeth in an effort to restrain her tears.

In Which Are Discussed Magick, Plots, and Counterplots

Gray returned to
Sieur Germain's library in a morose temper. Quite why he felt so disappointed in Sophie and Jenny, he could not exactly make out; he had no good reason to take umbrage with either . . .

“Marshall?” Master Alcuin looked up from his energetic note-taking at the sound of the closing door. “You have not found her?”

“I have found her, indeed,” Gray replied; “she is with my sister,
embroidering baby-clothes
and talking of . . . of fripperies, as though we had nothing of more importance to do.”

The older man shook his head. “Miss Sophie does her best, Marshall,” he said. “As do you. You must not expect too much of her; she has not had the advantages of a systematic education, and she has far more magickal talent than most, nearly all undisciplined and unexplored. And, besides all this, she is very young, and has been accustomed to a much more . . . retired style of living than—”

Gray slumped dejectedly into a seat across the table. “It is not that, at all,” he admitted. “If it were that she is unwilling, or did not learn quickly enough . . .”

“Well, then,” Master Alcuin prompted, “what is it that disturbs you so? This is not like you, Marshall.”

Gray was spared the trial of attempting to explain, however, for at that moment the door opened, almost silently, and Sophie—looking as colourless and insignificant as in her father's dining-room—stepped into the library. Though she did not greet him or even look at him, he felt, now that she was near, like a wandering sailor at last sighting his lodestar.

“Here I am,” she said softly, taking a seat at the end of the table and addressing herself to Master Alcuin. “Magister, Gray tells me that there is something you wished to discuss with me?”

“Indeed,” their teacher replied. “A discovery of great import to your magick—though it is his more than my own. Did you not tell me, Marshall,” turning to Gray, “that the answer came to you in the night?”

At once Sophie blushed and looked down at her hands, and Gray wished heartily that he had not said even this much to any other person. “I ought not to have alluded to the circumstances,” he said, leaning towards Sophie and pitching his voice for her ears alone, “but I should not wish to . . . to steer you awry . . . on such a matter.”

She raised her face to his, eyes wide. “What matter?” she asked. “Gray, whatever do you mean?”

“Your spell,” Gray said; “or, rather, your
spells
. Your
magia musicæ
. I—we—I understand, now, what it is you do.”

*   *   *

Sophie remembered, now, that last night he had promised to explain something.

“You found it yourself,” he continued, “in the marginalia of Gaius Britannicus's commentary on Orpheus; but I did not understand, then, what it meant.”

“
The singer may work various magicks, even as the Sirens of Homer
,” Sophie quoted, remembering. “It does mean something, then?”

“It means exactly what it says,” Master Alcuin replied. “The Sirens are—were—the first recorded to possess this particular magick. It is very rare indeed, but the histories document various other exercises of such a power, though in such a haphazard way that its course is difficult to follow.”

“What power?” Sophie was bewildered. “The Sirens' song lured men to their deaths, the histories say . . .” She paused, and in her mind things shifted subtly, fragments slotting into place. She looked up in horror. “That?” she demanded. “
That
is my talent?”

Gray's expression told her she had guessed aright.

“
Magia musicæ
is not inherently malevolent,” Master Alcuin said gently, holding her gaze. “Its effects depend on will, on intent. The same is true of any magickal working, as I am sure you understand.”

“What Master Alcuin means,” Gray added—Sophie turned to him, hopeful—“is that though you certainly
could
do such a thing, anyone admitted to the privilege of knowing you, must understand that you never
should
.”

“Exactly, exactly,” the older man agreed, and patted Sophie's hand. “The vital words are
various magicks
; you may leave the Sirens out entirely, if you wish.”

“Yes,” said Sophie after a moment. “Yes, I think I should prefer it so.”

“It is all in Orpheus,” Gray explained. “Gaius Britannicus did not quite comprehend it; perhaps he translates the Greek too literally. I am not sure how well I understand it myself. But here—in Claudius Varo's translation—we have this . . .” One long finger trailed along the line of cramped Latin print as he read, “
That which we name ‘the magick of music' has generally several discrete parts: the power of drawing persons for diverse purposes, or of holding captive; a species of foretelling, in general sadly unreliable; the means to evoke a sanguine or melancholy mood in the hearer; the power of soothing a savage or enraged beast . . .
There is quite a bit more in this vein; and at last we have this:
It is generally agreed, that the human voice is the most powerful channel of this magick, and that only the most powerful possessors of such a talent may exercise it in other wise
—with an instrument alone, I suppose he means. Then, eventually, he tells us that a person possessing such a talent may exercise all of its aspects or, more usually, a few only.” Laying the codex gently down upon the table, he looked up at Sophie. “What do you think? Have we found our answer?”

“I . . .” Sophie could not think what to say.
Your spell drew me,
Gray had said, and she supposed that he must have the right of it, for certainly she could offer no better explanation. “Does Orpheus,” she began again, “condescend to explain the particulars of the workings he mentions?”

Gray looked down at the book again. “If he does so,” he said dryly, “it is not in a manner I should consider practically useful. My own opinion . . .”

There was a brief silence before, almost simultaneously, both Sophie and Master Alcuin prompted, “Your opinion?”

“I believe that this magick must work in the same way as your . . . more evident talent,” said Gray. “But—tell me—” His eyes held Sophie's, and she found herself, absurdly, admiring their depth of colour: gold and brown and green mixed all together. “What were you thinking of, when . . .”

“Of you, of course,” she replied, without pausing for thought.

“And those other times?”

“Other times?”

“In the small drawing-room at Callender Hall,” Gray elaborated, and now she recalled his—at the time, mystifying—remarks on the subject of displaced magick shock:
There was magick in that room. I felt it—it called me there.

“I cannot now recall,” she said, “or not precisely; but I was thinking, I suppose, how much I should miss your company when the Professor took you away again.”

She smiled, a little tremulously, and was inexpressibly comforted by his answering smile.

“And on that first night in the library?”

Sophie blinked. “Then, too?” she asked. “I . . . I was wishing for someone to help me make sense of Gaius Aegidius.”

She remembered thinking, at the time, what an odd coincidence it was that Gray should have appeared in the doorway of the library just then.

“It does seem that we have made some considerable progress.” Master Alcuin's pensive remark startled Sophie from her thoughts. Both she and Gray turned to give him their full attention.

“Of the workings mentioned by Orpheus,” he began, “we can be sure only of the drawing-spell; what else you may be able to achieve, we shall have to determine by experiment—at some other time, when we have leisure for such researches. But, Marshall, this discovery of yours raises more questions than it answers. Tavener's
Historie
, you see”—before him lay another, newer codex, which he patted affectionately as he spoke—“names the royal house of Tudor as connected to
magia musicæ
, and as for Miss Sophie's other, equally unusual magickal talent . . .” He paused.

Sophie found that her hands had curled into fists, and carefully unfolded them.

“I am an old man,” Master Alcuin went on, “old enough to have seen a great deal of what the two of you may consider ‘history,' and heard tell of considerably more, accounts both reliable and . . . rather less so. It occurs to me that some years ago—perhaps as many years, Miss Sophie, as you have lived—the kingdom was full of tales of another young woman who seemed able to disappear at will. A woman who fled one night with her infant daughter, and never was seen again . . .”

We must tell him. He has guessed it all already . . .
Sophie fought the urge to look to Gray for confirmation of her decision; this was her own secret, her own tale, and the telling of it must be hers to undertake.

“You are quite right, Magister,” she said at last, raising her head to meet his kindly, penetrating eyes. “That woman was my mother; she has been in the realm of Proserpina these past nine years, and—and the infant daughter with whom she fled, you see before you now.”

Master Alcuin's blue eyes widened; then, to Sophie's dismay, he began to rise from his chair.

“I should not advise kneeling, Magister,” said Gray. “You will find that Sophie does not much care for it.”

*   *   *

By the time they had done explaining matters to Master Alcuin, Sophie had come to another decision. “Gray,” she said firmly, “we must also tell your sister and brother-in-law. It is not fair to ask for their trust, and then to abuse it by withholding the truth.”

He looked at her—doubtfully, it seemed—and fetched a sigh. “You are right, of course,” he said at last.

Sophie stood—triggering a cacophony of scraping and clattering as her companions hastened to follow suit—and squared her shoulders, saying, “We had best get it over, then. Unless . . .” She looked from Gray to Master Alcuin, biting her lip. “Ought I to go alone? If—”

“Of course not,” Gray said. He patted Sophie's shoulder in a vague, kindly way and, opening the library door, waved her through before him. Master Alcuin followed her out, remarking, “Perhaps we should do better to suspend our study of battle magicks until tomorrow, when we are all feeling more composed.”

Sophie stopped in her tracks and turned to gape at him. “Surely . . . surely we cannot learn battle magicks indoors, in a London house!”

“Indeed,” Gray said, “that seems most inadvisable.”

Master Alcuin looked pleased with himself. “But your sister, Marshall, thinks it
most advisable
that you both learn to defend yourselves, and has offered us the use of a cellar room for the purpose. I spoke to her on the subject this morning,” he added, “before breakfast; we have arranged it all between us.”

“One of Master Alcuin's few defects,” Gray remarked dryly, “is a propensity to be up and about when wiser folk are still abed. It is a fault he shares with my sister, alas.”

They found the other ladies in the drawing-room, Jenny pottering about at the pianoforte while Mrs. Wallis darned stockings, and dispatched Joanna to fetch Sieur Germain. Mrs. Wallis put down her work and rose to demand of Sophie, sotto voce, what she was about; before any explanation or justification could be attempted, however, Joanna returned with Sieur Germain in tow, and Mrs. Wallis took her expression of alarm back to her seat.

There was no knowing what tale Joanna had spun for their host. He was out of breath and looked anxious; when Master Alcuin murmured a warding-spell, his expression of anxiety deepened, and Jenny, too, began to look alarmed.

“Sophie, dear, whatever is the matter?” the latter inquired. “You look very grim.”

Sophie attempted a reassuring smile; even she was conscious of its not succeeding very well.

*   *   *

“We have not been entirely forthright,” Sophie began. She ought properly to look at her audience, but though she might have made herself meet Jenny's eyes, to look at Sieur Germain was quite impossible.

“That is . . . we have told you nothing but truth; but we have not—
I
have not—told all the truth. But I have decided—”

“Think before you speak, Miss Sophia,” said Mrs. Wallis, with a meaning look.

“I have thought, thank you.” Sophie's fingers gripped the edges of the piano-bench on which she sat, as though she could somehow draw courage from the polished wood. “My mind is quite made up.”

“There are other considerations, child! Think—is this wise?”

“Perhaps not, but—”

“Enough!” Sieur Germain thundered, making them all jump. “Miss Callender has something to say to us,” he went on, more moderately, “and anyone who does not wish to hear it may leave the room.”

With a wary glance at him, Mrs. Wallis subsided.

“I am very sorry, Sieur Germain, Lady Kergabet, for having deceived you, when you have been so kind and generous to us,” Sophie went on. “I hardly know where to begin . . .”

“Begin at the beginning, Miss Callender,” Sieur Germain suggested patiently.

Sophie laughed—a choked, horrible sound. “The beginning would be long in the telling,” she said, her gaze on the elegant pattern of the carpet at her feet, “but the end is that I am
not
Miss Callender, at all. I am—I am—”

But she found she could not go on.

The fraught silence of the drawing-room was stirred by a rustle of skirts, the sigh of upholstery released from someone's weight, soft footfalls on the thick carpet. An arm gently encircled Sophie's shoulders; on her other side, a large, warm hand clasped hers.

“She is the lost Princess Royal,” said Jenny, to Sophie's astonishment. “She whom we have heard so much talked of, since coming up to Town—the daughter of the vanished Queen Laora, whom His Majesty seeks so eagerly of late . . .”